Clockwork
by Lefty
Summary: Years down the road, they've got it down to a science.


**Title: **Clockwork

**Summary: **Years down the road, they've got it down to a science.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the boys or the show. The end.

**-----**

**I.**

Somewhere in Nevada, Dean is asleep in the front seat of the car.

Sam drives with one hand hanging out the window, fingers splayed, letting the wind cut through them.

The air outside is thick with impending rain and he hopes it holds off a little longer because Dean just fell asleep and if there's anything Dean _can't _do it's sleep through a storm.

Sam hasn't slept in forever, but Dean is wearier.

He drives the speed limit, unlike Dean, because when Sam drives it usually means they're on their way back from somewhere and they have nowhere to be except a shoddy motel at the edge of town.

And Sam is never in a rush to get to those.

He knows where they are without a map; they gave up fumbling with maps a long time ago because they've been everywhere once, and then some. Dean knows landmarks and Sam knows street names, so between the both of them they've got it covered.

When the thunder rumbles in the distance, Sam swears softly and Dean wakes up. When the rain starts to splatter the windshield, Sam rolls up his window and Dean pulls his jacket tighter around himself.

When the lightening cuts across the evening sky, they pull into a motel parking lot and Sam kills the engine.

He tosses Dean the keys as they get out of the car like a kid who just got his permit would to the more experienced driver.

Dean catches them without looking because Sam always throws them and it's a habit they've formed over the years.

That night after the storm, Dean will get into a fight with the locals over pool while Sam fights sleep.

The next morning, Sam will count the money and Dean's bruises, and neither one of them will think twice.

**II. **

Sam has this thing about showering after a hunt, and it takes Dean a few years to realize it has nothing to do with washing off the dirt and blood. It's more of a purification ritual for the mind.

He thinks it started when they were teenagers, but he can hardly place the where or why.

He hardly remembers anything anymore. He doesn't remember why or how he does some of things he does, he just knows somewhere along the way he was taught to.

It's like a joke you know is funny but you can't remember why, except that Dean doesn't know how to say anything funny in Latin and cleaning guns isn't exactly something he would classify as a good time.

He knows what's important; he knows everything in between. He just can't remember the beginning and he can't predict the end.

During one of Sam's ritual cleansings, Dean drives to a small flower shop he saw on the way in.

When the lady behind the counter asks him if the flower is for his girlfriend, he flashes teeth and says _she loves these._

When he hands her some wadded bills and change, he can't remember if he ever really had a girlfriend.

Out in the Impala, Dean lays the flower on the dash and heads back to the motel. He'd read somewhere that during the War of Dynasties in Japan warriors wore yellow Chrysanthemums as a pledge of courage.

Or maybe it was Sam who told him that; Sam is always telling him about things he's read. Most of the time it's important and will save their lives somewhere down the line; but sometimes it's trivial and interesting and makes both of them feel more real because they don't _have _to know it for any particular reason.

Either way, chrysanthemums are simply something else he can't recall the source of; he just knows it makes him feel better to see them in his car.

By the time he gets back, Sam's hair is still dripping from the shower. He asks Dean where he's been and Dean lies like a cheating husband.

The next morning, Sam won't ask about the flower. He never asks about the flowers.

Dean wouldn't remember anyway.

**III.**

A few weeks later, Sam doesn't know where he is, except that he's in another motel. That puts him at the edge of something: a town or death. He feels like the latter, but Dean says its Iowa.

Sam just takes his word because he's already lost years of his life, what are a few more days?

They leave the next morning and head west where they find a whole lot of nothing. At a diner in the middle of nowhere Dean says they should go north and Sam says east so they compromise - something they've learned works a hell of a lot better than arguing about who's right because they _both _think they are so what's the use?

Halfway to where ever they're going, Dean picks a real winner at night and they get the haunted room. A few hundred bucks and one pissed-off spirit later, Dean makes an executive decision and they head south.

**IV. **

Stalled at a stoplight in Louisiana, Sam counts the cars in a funeral procession like he's counting sheep.

Dean tells him it's bad luck and Sam doesn't care to believe him until he loses three more days to a poltergeist.

Sam blames it on his accident-prone nature and Dean tells him with cold hands and warm eyes that he knows his superstitions backwards and forwards and maybe next time Sam should listen.

Either way, it's Dean patching Sam up and he can do that without looking. He wishes that weren't the case because that means he's done it one too many times and accident-prone or just plain stubborn, he shouldn't have to see his brother hurt that much.

The boys are used to things that no one should ever be, but it's who they are and they wouldn't be themselves otherwise. Dean accepts this, always has. He's better about taking a hit, but Sam is learning to turn the other cheek.

Dean finds comfort in the regularity and Sam finds comfort in Dean. And although Sam is hesitant to admit it, it's like most roads they travel down – a two-way street.

Every now and then though, Sam does the mending. But more often than not, his eyes are too wide, his hands shake too much and he breathes too fast.

And somehow, Dean still ends up fixing everything.

**End. **


End file.
